


the things this world gave you

by frausorge



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, F/M, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rookies Take a Knee 'verse, San Jose Sharks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frausorge/pseuds/frausorge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door slams behind J.R., and Patrick chokes for air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the things this world gave you

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the [Rookies Take a Knee 'verse](http://tmblr.co/ZkzJ1u1Dw6xpg) created by 7iris and sinsense. Many thanks for the kind permission to run with their concept here!

The door slams behind J.R., and Patrick chokes for air. He wants to - to spit, to scream, to smash something, and he can't move. Through the rushing in his ears he can faintly hear J.R.'s car start up and roll away. Patrick tries to take a deep breath, and another, another - too fast, probably, he's - he needs to calm down. He shouldn't let this shit get to him. He's heard it before, the doubts, the questions about his captaincy, his - he should go back to the den. He should sit down. His ears won't stop buzzing. He can't move.

"Pat?" Christina says. She comes to him, and he puts his arms around her, but he can't really look at her. "What did J.R. want?" she asks. "I heard him yelling."

Patrick shakes his head. The buzzing is wrapped all around him, and he opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He shakes his head again.

Christina stands with him for a minute. Maybe more. She reaches back and lays her hand over his, and they can both feel that his is trembling. 

"Do you want to talk to someone from the team?" she asks. "Could you tell them about it?"

That's an idea - the first one that's felt within reach. She's so smart. Patrick loves her so much. "Joe," he says. Joe knows all too well what these kinds of accusations feel like. Joe can - Patrick doesn't know what Joe can do about it, but maybe Joe will have an idea. "I'll, yeah, I'll- go-" He drops his hand to his pocket, feels the car keys there. "I'll go, I'll be back, later." He squeezes her shoulders and turns for the door.

"Pat, wait!" she says behind him. But he can't wait, he can't, he needs to get out, to get away, to go -

 

"Is Joe home?" Patrick says, as evenly as he can. Tabea looks at him with wide eyes. Then she nods and gestures him inside. "Please, sit down, Patrick," she says. "I will get him for you."

Patrick goes into the living room. He looks at the couch, but he can't sit down.

He hears Joe's voice in the hallway before Joe comes in. "Yeah, he's here," Joe's saying quietly. "Yeah. Ok. I will. Yeah."

Patrick's ears go hot, but then Joe stops talking, comes around the corner, and looks at him. "Hey, Patty," he says. "Wanna sit down?"

Patrick shakes his head. 

Joe nods, still looking at him. "Ok. What's going on?"

"J.R.," Patrick manages. "Came to my _house._ "

Joe raises his eyebrows. "And?"

"And- he said." 

"What?" Joe prompts. "What did he have to say?"

Patrick's throat is too tight. He keeps taking more breaths, but he can't get any more words out. 

Joe looks at Patrick for what feels like a long time. One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Come with me?" he says.

Patrick follows Joe down the hallway, to the back of the house where the master suite is. Joe stops inside the door of his bedroom and digs through the clothes heaped on a chair till he comes up with a jersey. It's a publicity jersey, sized to wear without pads, but it's got his 19s in the right places, and his A. Joe pulls it on over his head. 

Then he glances back at Patrick and leads him further into the room, to the window - no, to the bathroom. Maybe Joe is going to throw him under the shower. Joe locks the door behind them, and he does go to the walk-in shower, but he doesn't turn the water on. He grabs a towel and folds it into a thick pad, then sits down on the bench at the back of the shower, thighs sprawled wide, and lays the towel on the floor between his feet. Then he sits back and looks at Patrick.

Patrick sucks in a sharp breath.

He hasn't kneeled in years, not since he first wore an A, although up until then he'd gone on doing it longer than most guys he knows. Owen never minded helping him out, even though Patrick's rookie season was past. But Patrick is the captain now; the new kids come to him to kneel. He should be over it by now, should have gotten past the need. Should be able to handle his team, let alone himself.

His head is rushing. He couldn't sit on the couch, but it feels possible, now, to get to the floor.

He goes to Joe and kneels.

"That's good, Patty," Joe says. He puts a hand on the back of Patrick's neck and presses Patrick's head down to rest on his thigh. Patrick closes his eyes.

The hand on Patrick's neck doesn't move. After a bit, he feels Joe's other hand come down in soft, short strokes through his hair. The room gradually gets quieter.

"Can you breathe ok?" Joe says.

"Yes," Patrick says.

"Good."

Patrick feels like he's wrapped up in gauze now, rather than static. 

His fingers are tired. He lets them uncurl.

"So J.R. showed up at your house tonight," Joe says. He presses down harder on Patrick's neck, pre-empting the twitch. "Tell me what happened after that."

The memory feels distant from him, like it was a long time ago or happened to someone else. Patrick opens his mouth and the words in his head seep back out, bit by bit: _no heart, no emotion, no passion. Not enough focus. Not enough edge. Need to show bigger balls in big games. Light a fire under you. Can't get through to you. Not performing. Not leading. Undeserving. Never willing to change._

Joe listens carefully. When Patrick falls silent, Joe rubs his knuckles over Patrick's cheek and says, "Is he right?"

"I don't know," Patrick says. It doesn't seem important. He's not tired, exactly, but he feels drowsy, and it's all sort of far away.

"Patty. Look at me."

Joe uses the hand on Patrick's neck to lift his head up, and cups his other palm over Patrick's cheek. Patrick leans into it; it's warm, even through the layers of distance. Joe tilts his head and studies Patrick's face.

After a while Joe moves his hand so two of his fingertips are resting on Patrick's lower lip. Patrick lets his mouth drop open, lets Joe's fingers nudge inside. He's not quite sure what Joe wants, but when Joe leaves his fingers there, Patrick closes his lips around them. There's a salt taste on his tongue, and he has to pay attention to keep his mouth closed tight enough to suck.

"Good," Joe says, "you're doing good."

He pulls his hand away. Patrick can't help swaying after it, but Joe only smiles. He brings his knees in to press close against Patrick's sides, and then he puts both hands on the waistband of his own track pants and pushes them down to free his dick.

Patrick looks at it, then up at Joe's face. Joe leans back against the wall behind him and watches Patrick silently.

Patrick feels a fresh wash of doubt. He's been in San Jose his whole career. For all his extra years kneeling, he doesn't have any experience with cocksucking. And Joe - Joe came up in Boston.

Joe clearly thinks he can do it, though, and Patrick lets that spark a new determination in him. He's going to prove that Joe's confidence is not misplaced. He can focus. He can learn and improve. He can be good. 

He bends forward and fits his mouth around the head of Joe's dick. He can't take very much of it in; he tries to push down and has to back off right away. Joe's almost all the way hard now.

"You can use your hands," Joe says. That helps. Patrick tries to recall what else he's ever heard about giving a blowjob. He keeps his lips over his teeth as much as he can, tries to press his tongue around the head. 

Joe lets out a shuddering breath, not quite a groan, and a small flare of pride runs through Patrick. His face feels hot, and his knees are starting to feel sore despite the towel, and his own dick is getting harder the longer he keeps moving on Joe's. 

Joe makes more and more noise, his body bowing into a curve each time Patrick brings his hand and his lips together. Then, sooner than Patrick expects, Joe raps at Patrick's shoulder and pushes him off to jerk himself through the last few strokes. His come lands on the tile next to Patrick.

"Touch yourself," Joe gasps, breathless. "Get- get yourself off."

Patrick fumbles at his zipper, takes his own dick in a rough grip. Joe leans down and lays his hands on either side of Patrick's face. 

"I know you," Joe says. "I know you're dedicated. I know you've got heart."

Patrick moans. He can't help it. 

"I know how you play," Joe goes on. "I trust you on the ice. Trust me."

Patrick comes.

 

He rests his forehead on Joe's knee for another few minutes while he's getting his breath back. Joe runs his hand through Patrick's hair, then gives Patrick's shoulder a shake. Patrick sits back on his heels. Joe stands up, and pulls Patrick to his feet, too.

"C'mere," Joe says. They go to the sink, and Joe gives Patrick a cup of water, refilling it after Patrick's sucked down the first. They clean up a little and get themselves back in order. Joe unlocks the door, and Patrick follows him out.

"You should stay here tonight," Joe says, which is fortunate because Patrick suddenly finds he can barely keep his eyes open. 

"Thanks," he says. Joe brings him to the guest bedroom and sits down on the foot of the bed while Patrick crawls into the sheets. He puts his hand on Patrick's ankle after Patrick stretches his legs out under the blanket. He's still sitting there when Patrick falls asleep.

 

Patrick snaps awake in the morning with the sense that he was just dreaming wildly, although it's all gone the moment he opens his eyes. His body feels loose and relaxed; kneeling - plus an orgasm, he guesses - will do that for you.

He makes his way to the kitchen, where Joe and Tabea are sitting with their coffee mugs. "Morning," Patrick says. They both smile at him when they reply. Tabea pours out coffee for Patrick as well.

"You good to drive home?" Joe asks when Patrick's emptied his mug. 

"Yeah," Patrick says. "Thanks."

Joe smiles. He pulls Patrick into a quick hug when they stand up, and walks him to the door. "See you at practice," Joe says.

 

Christina throws her arms around Patrick as soon as he gets home. " _Pat_ ," she says into his neck. "I was so worried about you."

"I'm sorry," he says. "Sorry I freaked out. And sorry I didn't come home."

She pulls back enough to look at him. "I knew you were staying there," she says. "Did it help?"

"Yeah," he says. "I can tell you about it."

She puts her hand to his chin, turns his face to one side and the other, and finally stretches up to kiss him. "Ok," she says. "Have you had breakfast?" He shakes his head. "Me neither," she says, and they go to the kitchen together.

 

Morning skate goes well, apart from the fact that neither Patrick nor J.R. says a word to the other. Joe tries to hipcheck Patrick into the boards during one of the drills, but Patrick sees it coming and sidesteps neatly, laughing.

He gets some time to think during his workout in the afternoon, pedaling away on the bike. He's not sure he's done thinking about it by the time he moves to the weights, but he's reached two main conclusions so far. The first is that Joe did exactly the right thing for him; he can't think of anything else that would have pulled him out of it any faster or better. And the second, following on from that, is that J.R. is a fuckstain and a jackass, but out of all the shit he said, there's one thing he didn't get wrong.

 

Come summer, a big swath of the roster is gone, J.R. among them. And that's not all. McLellan calls Patrick in, has him take a seat, and looks at him coolly. 

"Patrick," he says, "we think it's time for you to stop wearing the C."

Patrick nods.


End file.
